“You did.”
“Not enough.” He wished she would come closer, or that he would close the distance himself. But the room stretched before them, too vast to cross, and the wall clock tick-tocked in rhythm to his frenzied heart. “Georgina—”
“He also related the news of your return to America.” Her eyes fell. “Mr. Oswald, I mean.” She cleared her throat. “Over dinner.”
“The children have grown very fond of you.” The words rushed out. “They need a mother.”
She stared at her feet.
“It is different in America. The ways are less genteel, and the land is like a friend you have to earn. But the people are good.” He tripped over the last sentence. “Life there is good. I want to go back and paint everything and”—he hesitated—“and I want you to come with me.”
CHAPTER 22
She forced her eyes upward. Her gaze rose from the black buttons on his coat, to the simple white knot at his throat, to the yellow-bruised face.
“You need not answer me now.”
Eagerness flickered to the brim of her. The flame heated her face, the back of her neck, then extinguished with so much force she nearly swayed.The children are fond of you.
“You are not bound to me by anything my father wished.” He glanced at her mouth, then looked away. “Or anything else.”
He was giving her opportunity to reject him. As if he wanted her to.
The children. Fond of you.
Her breathing shallowed.
Need a mother.
“The ship departs in a sennight. I realize it is not much time—”
“You are doing the right thing.” Her chest suffocated. “The children will be happiest there.Youwill be happiest there.” She glanced at his hands, shiny and discolored with healing burns. “Where you can build things. You always wanted to build things and do something that was more than all this.” She glanced about the room—the dusty globe, the matching settee and chairs, all the perfect glassware and trinkets.
He took one step forward, but she cut him off before he could say anything. “I wish you Godspeed on your journey, Mr. Fancourt, and every measure of prosperity. If you think of me, you may write. Mamma and Mr. Lutwidge have decided to move to his estate soon, but I shall remain here in London. I am fond of it here.” The words fell flat. “Very much fond of it.”
His nod was stiff. His throat bobbed.
“You will tell the children goodbye for me?”
Another nod.
She answered with one of her own, then forced a smile summoned by nothing more than sheer willpower. “Thank you.” For saving her life. For being willing to die for her. For caring for her enough to pledge himself in matrimony, despite the fact that the only woman he was in love with was his dead wife.
Silence stretched.
She wanted to say something—something that would make the ending more sweet and less bitter—but nothing came to her.
With one last glance, she curtsied and departed the room, sickness swarming through her with near-paralyzing dominance. He wanted her for the children. He wanted her out of pity and wretched obligation. He wanted her because he had teased her with the kiss and he was too much a gentleman to taunt her heart.
I love you, Simon.
She glanced back at the parlor door through a blur. He still stood watching her, and she wondered if she imagined the moisture in his gaze.
She almost wished she had died in that room and the fire had consumed her.
Because for the first time in her life, as he burned for her, she had believed—if only for a moment—the most beautiful fantasy in the world.
That Simon Fancourt loved her back.
